


Revenge is a Curse

by mustangisinflames



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Contracts, Curses, F/M, Ghosts, Injury, M/M, Murder, Mystery, Original Characters (aren't main though), Past Suicidal Thoughts, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Romance (slowburn), Sickness, Will add more characters as we go, Will add more tags as we go, mentions of the trial of the grasses, rating has gone up, the f/m tag is for the OCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-05-19 11:24:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19356073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustangisinflames/pseuds/mustangisinflames
Summary: When Geralt of Rivia finds himself cursed by the ghost of one Merlina Denworth, a whole new mystery to unravel presents itself.Regis just wishes his dear friend would stop finding so much trouble, for numerous personal reasons.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been a fan of the Witcher books and games for a long while now and decided what the hell, I'll finally start getting around to posting this fic I've been working on. I hope you enjoy!  
> P.S. Other chapters will be much longer after this one!

The witcher moved silently, footsteps muted by clusters of moss discerned in the dark through shades of white and grey with Hauteville’s Orlémurs Cemetery far above his head. The sharp taste of Cat lingered on his tongue. Creeping along like a shadow, no more than slivers of yellow irises to anyone – or anything – sharp enough to spot him. Abandoned crypts in dismal alcoves dogged his path and Geralt grit his teeth, _Just how long are these tunnels?_

He knew full well the entrance was far behind him now, the raspy breath of fresh air merely a fond memory. The soft creak of well-oiled leather and mail ghosted his movements, shifting and settling with every step. A steady hum of anticipation skirted through his blood, a sense of trepidation that came with every hunt for a monster he had yet to uncover. His base instincts had urged him to prepare for a spectre of sorts and he’d followed them diligently, silver sword doused in oil and sheathed for now. Fingers poised and ready to cast Yrden.

A presence engulfed the air as he inched forward, hand poised over the grip of the sword; so oppressive and dense that he nearly slipped in surprise, gloved hand coming out to steady him just in time with a soft scuff against the stone wall. He leaned into it for a moment, supporting himself as he sought to calm his mind, to fight against the unwelcome sensation. It felt heavy in his chest, almost painful, something calling out to him that it was magical before his medallion even had a chance to tremble. But there was something else in it too, something else raw and desperate and he dwelt in on himself to search for the words to describe it.

It was _sadness_.

No. _Grief_.

It was that same agony he felt when he believed Ciri dead on that island so long ago. The one that wrenched his heart, flooded his mind, and suffocated him all at once. There was that same anger to it too, a savage edge that demanded someone, anyone, be guilty. The very same blame Geralt had put on himself back then – too late to save his daughter.

He almost choked but remembered his surroundings in enough time to swallow it down. A burning sensation smudged his sight for a moment before he rubbed it away. A moment of stillness fell. His breath huffed slowly out of his lungs, heartbeat thudding sluggishly and evenly. Straining to hear the soft clink of the talisman about his neck and the frantic drip of moisture from the ceiling above.

Then sobbing met his ears.

High pitched, female, human; his heightened senses latched onto it easily as it drifted from ahead of him. A small part of him felt spurred to act upon it, but years on the Path had taught him better than that and instead suspicion rose up to greet it. Booted feet pressed against soft lichen, avoiding the puddles smattered on the ground, following the voice and drawing the silver sword with a dull scrape. The weight familiar and reassuring in his palm.

The tunnel opened into a cavern of a room. High ceilings arching above his head, unlit braziers rusted in iron brackets on the wall and, in the centre of it all, a marble statue of a dancing woman with an intricately engraved tomb at its feet. Geralt’s medallion hummed steadily, practically jumping from his chest toward the grave.

At least now he had an inkling of the depressive magic’s source.

Approaching it warily, careful not to touch, he blew the layer of dust away to read the carvings.

“Merlina Denworth,” He murmured, gravelled voice loud in the quiet.

Suddenly, he was no longer alone.

A woman stood in the archway to the tunnel, slender form wrapped in a dress, hair long and braided over one shoulder. Geralt reflexively traced a semi-circle with the tip of his sword. She regarded him with dark eyes.

“You are a witcher, yes?” She asked.

Geralt felt his grip tighten on the sword grip, wary for now, “Who are you?”

“Not at all the monster you seek,” She assured him and though his grasp slackened minutely, Geralt did not sheath the blade.

“Who says I’m seeking monsters?”

“That is what a witcher does, is it not? He kills the monsters, helps the weak and needy common folk though they give him little courtesy in return… I believe necrophages sometimes roam these tunnels. Perhaps that is why you are here.” Her voice lilted with highs and lows, carrying a gentle melody to it and though she was pale and eerie in the monochrome cast of the Cat, Geralt sensed an honesty to her that had him lower his sword, so the tip met the ground.

Yet he still refused to return it to his scabbard.

“You’re well-informed,” He stated, brow furrowing as the magical haze of sorrow seemed to evaporate from the room.

The woman tilted her head, “I studied witchers once… I even fell in love with one, but that was so very long ago now.”

“Who are you?” Geralt tried again, but she appeared lost in herself for a long, heavy silence that rest uncomfortably on his shoulders.

“Tell me, witcher,” She said suddenly, eyes sharp once more, “Are you a man of justice? Of honour?”

“Depends who you ask.”

“Do you only kill monsters of a bestial nature? Or do you put to the sword those that walk amongst us too?”

“Sentient creatures-” He started but was unable to finish as she cut him off.

“I do not mean those who wish to live a ‘normal’ life among us – Godlings, Succubi, Dopplers… I do not fear them. I speak of those who _are_ human, who live, and talk, and love…” Her expression slipped into something unreadable, harsh and scornful, “Who _lie_ , who hurt and cheat and exploit for their own gain. Those who take and take until there is nothing left to give, and they turn to jealousy rather than face their own flaws? Tell me now, _witcher. Would you kill a man who is the very thing he claims to protect you from?_ ”

Her voice careened to a wail, echoing throughout the room and jolting Geralt right to his very core. His fingers somehow remembered to grip the sword and he brought the weapon up threateningly though his brain felt like it was rattling in his skull. The wolf medallion leaped and sprung about on its chain frantically.

Time to change tactics.

“ _What are you?!_ ” He yelled and though his throat rasped with the force of the words, he couldn’t hear his own voice through the screeching.

“I am not the monster you seek,” She screamed, each word raking against his eardrums. Something warm slicked either side of his face and slipped under the leather of his armour, “I am Merlina Denworth. I am a woman scorned. I am a _person,_ witcher, trapped by the misery of my death for a crime I did not commit. A guilty man walks free, and you and I…”

Geralt barely comprehended her appearing in front of him, his vision trembling and swaying as though a lethal number of potions were coursing through his body. He swung out lamely, some still sane piece of his mind telling him to fight, to _run_ – he was in way over his head. She batted his attack aside as though it were a mere inconvenience and though her mouth was closed, he couldn’t get the gods-awful screeching out of his mind. His body seized up. He couldn’t get away. Couldn’t move. He could scarcely _breathe_. More warmth spilled from his nose, seeped into his mouth, and he tasted the sharp copper tang of blood, soured by the potion he’d downed.

Merlina leaned in close and through the blood, Geralt could smell the heady musk of decay and rot as it plastered itself to his tongue, mingling awfully. Her pale hand pressed against his chest and even through the layers between them, an icy chill fanned out across his skin, banding over his ribs and twisting the air out of his lungs.

“We are bound now, witcher.”

Something tightened so painfully hard inside him and the sword fell from his grasp. Coldness and yet it burned like a fire. He tried to cry out, to do something, _anything_ , but his body refused to obey.

 _Can’t breathe_.

His head throbbing so hard it might explode. His limbs an iron weight, anchoring him in place. A pulse pummelled wildly in his chest.

_I can’t breathe._

Sharp release.

Air filled his lungs once more and he sucked it in greedily, like a drowning man. His head clamouring, his mind racing. His knees buckled and Merlina was there waiting for him, her arms embracing him almost tenderly. The scent of death lingered around her, skin coarse and brittle. Sunken eyes gleaned him, and her cracked lips stretched awkwardly over withered gums.

“Oh, sweet witcher, you shall bring me justice.”

The cold stone of the catacombs was replaced by soft grass, an early morning frost wetting the skin of his face as Merlina set him down gently. Her half-preserved form even more horrifying in the dim light of dawn and despite his desperation, Geralt could not will his body to move. He lay there helplessly as she hummed, tucking a stray lock of white hair back behind his ear before moving out of his line of sight.

“Thank you, sweet witcher.”

Suddenly his body was free and he spasmed, only managing to roll onto his back with a pitiful groan to see that she was gone. His vision swam, the Cat beginning to wear off and taint the world with shades of colour once more much to his pounding head’s chagrin. The haze about his sight narrowed in and he embraced it, giving in to blissful unconsciousness.

Somewhere, far, far away, on the very edge of his hearing, a raven cawed.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year has passed since the Beast of Beauclair attempted to raze the city to the ground and succeeded in killing Sylvia Anna. 
> 
> Regis has since been trying to pick up the pieces.
> 
> But with Dettlaff in the wind and the blood bond between them silenced, Regis turns his worries to other things. Specifically, his witcher friend, Geralt.
> 
> Turns out he was right to worry.
> 
> (WARNING: Tiny description of blood in this chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd post the next chapter to get some of the set up on Regis' side out of the way and to also get the story rolling!

It had been almost a month since Regis returned to Toussaint, a year since he’d left to track Dettlaff. But finding a Higher Vampire that did not wish to be found was a near impossible feat and though Regis had come close to the trail once or twice, it inevitably resulted in a dead end. The blood bond itself was silent too; if Dettlaff ever resurfaced it would clearly have to be on his own terms in his own time.

Regis tried not to worry too much for him.

Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery had been in much the same state that he’d left it, give or take the odd lower vampire and the nest of ghouls that had decided to move in during his absence. The necrophages swiftly dealt with and the lower vampire ‘persuaded’ to move elsewhere. It had been somewhat a relief to return somewhere he had considered a home of sorts; the overlapping headstones and uneven ground a reassurance that though the Beast of Beauclair had changed many things, this corner of existence remained the same. One could truly find no one as immovable as the dead.

Corvo Bianco was still as enchanting as when he’d first laid eyes upon it if not more so, the whitewashed walls and slopes of the Sansretour Valley bathed in sunlight. Already the vineyards had grown in and the first clusters of grapes beginning to flower and form. Truly, the witcher had made the most of the place and breathed new life into the buildings and grounds. Were it not for the invitation he’d received from Geralt himself, Regis would have assumed someone else had moved in and taken over.

He was greeted at the door by Barnabas-Basil, the ever cordial and polite majordomo, and had barely taken a step inside when Geralt’s head appeared from round a doorway with a grin on his face. The year they’d spent apart had been kind to him, Regis saw, taking note of the witcher’s bright yellow eyes and how the lines of his face didn’t appear as deep and taxing as before. He was glad to see it and found himself smiling heartily back as B.B. removed his coat and left to hang it up.

“Thought I heard you,” Geralt said.

“Yes, it’s lovely to see you too, Geralt. I see you’ve become quite the vintner since our last meeting,” he replied, leaning into the embrace and clap on the shoulder his friend greeted him with. Geralt shrugged.

“Wouldn’t give me too much credit, B.B.’s been supervising me. Making sure I don’t break something.”

“Or use a sword as pruning shears?”

Geralt huffed a laugh, “Something like that. C’mon, sit down, Marlene’s put out a whole spread for us.”

Regis blinked in surprise, “I don’t wish to impose-”

“Word to the wise, Regis,” The witcher said, disappearing into the other room, “Don’t argue, just eat. Marlene is _very_ fond of looking after people.”

And so they had eaten, and spoke of times past and more recent, though Regis skilfully steered the conversation away from Dettlaff and the events that transpired a year ago. He knew how much he had asked of Geralt then, and how much the decision to let Dettlaff go after the near razing of Beauclair and Sylvia Anna’s death had pained him. Dinner had evolved into a tour of the grounds which were now restored to their former glory, Geralt stopping by the outside cellar and retrieving a bottle of red wine. _He looks content_ , Regis had thought as his friend explained in stilted and awkward wording how the wine making process worked before laughing and assuring him that he’d get B.B. to explain it properly sometime. A warmth settled deep in Regis’ chest as the witcher sat them on a raised hill surveying the property and proposed a toast, passing the bottle between them every few sips.

That warmth had since stayed.

It had since become something of a routine. For two weeks Regis found himself called back to Corvo Bianco with increasing frequency, idly passing days by with talk, wine, and sometimes mandrake hooch. At Geralt’s insistence, a small distillery had been set up in the lab beneath the main house next to the witcher’s own alchemical apparatuses. Regis had familiarised himself with them one afternoon, perusing the hastily kept notebooks with recipes to brew just about any witcher poison he could think of. He was secretly pleased, however, to find the raven and a few herbal concoctions dog-eared.

Clearly, after years of nagging, his friend was beginning to listen.

Despite Regis’ own protests, B.B. had seen to it that the guest room was always prepared for his visits though the vampire never stayed the night. Regis felt as though he intruded on Geralt’s hospitality far too often to presume to stay any longer than a day though the witcher would stress frequently that he was always welcome. It was a line he would not cross, always excusing himself to return to his crypt with naught but the graves to keep him company and though he was fond of his ravens, they didn’t provide the same challenge of intellect that talking with Geralt did. The witcher was deviously quick of mind and wit in a way many other conversational partners he’d engaged with throughout the centuries were not.

It was not entirely odd to admit to himself that he enjoyed Geralt’s company thoroughly. He had been fascinated with the man since the days of the Hansa, even before Geralt had any idea of exactly what Regis was. What surprised Regis was how he _longed_ for the witcher when he returned to his crypt and, though they truly were not that far apart, it felt as though Geralt might as well be on the other side of the world. He chided himself most sternly for it, it was childish behaviour at best and besides, Geralt surely wasn’t missing Regis so badly. No, he had a violet eyed and raven haired sorceress waiting for him.

Though, truth be told, he had yet to see Yennefer anywhere near Toussaint let alone the vineyard. Every visit he half expected to smell the tart scent of gooseberries mixed with lilacs and see her painfully beautiful face smiling in greeting, but he never did. Indeed it was very strange but Geralt had said nothing on the matter and Regis didn’t see reason to press; he knew the two would spend periods apart from time to time, but that they would always find each other again. Such was the nature of their bond. He wished his own blood bond with Dettlaff did the same, but it remained an icy and silent hole in the back of his mind; a constant reminder of his own failure.

Geralt, as it turned out, had not entirely retired from his trade. Though he was no longer on the Path, he had dedicated himself to becoming something akin to ‘the local witcher’. Gone were the days of wandering and seeking out signposts, replaced now by a postal service that brought contracts to his own door. Regis had been there at Corvo Bianco when his friend received one.

The witcher had been training in an area he’d set aside where targets, balance beams and even a strange contraption he referred to as the Gauntlet, “Though it’s nowhere near as mean a bastard as the one back at Kaer Morhen, Regis, trust me”, decorated the ground. Geralt was running laps on the narrow beam, seven feet off the ground, footwork precise, blade making solid contact with every target as a weighted wooden pendulum swung dangerously in the centre, trying to throw him off.

Regis had watched with fascination, black eyes following the swing of the sword, the line of Geralt’s arm and the curve of his spine as he dodged, weaved, and pirouetted into blow after blow. When he finally spied the cloth across the witcher’s eyes he tsk-ed, “Truly an impressive display in showing off, master witcher.”

He felt rather than saw his friend’s smile as Geralt leaped gracefully onto a lower running beam and then to the ground, knees taking the impact. The vampire’s eyes briefly flitted to the old injury he knew affected Geralt’s right knee and was pleasantly surprised to see it bound and protected by the support brace Regis had devised only a week ago. Something in his chest tripped and he cleared his throat, “I’m glad to see you are making use of the brace too, I trust it isn’t too debilitating?”

Geralt reached behind his head, fingers deftly working the knot and pulling the blindfold away. Piercing cat eyes met his own with a brief look before the witcher busied himself with putting the training equipment away, “It’s great, Regis. Can barely feel it’s there.”

“I am relieved to hear it, my friend. Normally I’d suggest taking time to adjust to it, but I know you well enough not to bother.”

“Ha-hah,” Geralt’s sarcastic voice replied from the small shack built to house his practise gear and Regis laughed brightly.

“However, it truly is comforting to know it does not impede you during strenuous use. I was concerned it might get in your way which, as we both know, could have potentially grave consequences during a fight.”

The witcher emerged from the shack, undershirt loosely laced, and wiping his hands on dark cotton leggings, “Like I said, Regis, it’s damn near perfect. It won’t get in the way.”

Regis’ fingers nervously hooked around the shoulder strap of his satchel and he rocked back onto his heels slightly, “Nearly perfect is perhaps good enough for you, Geralt, but I’d much prefer it were completely flawless. For my own peace of mind, if not yours.”

Geralt sighed and rolled his eyes, but there was a fondness to it, an exasperated half smile that upturned the corners of his mouth as he walked over and poured a glass of cool water Marlene had brought out earlier, “You worry too much, Regis.”

“I say I worry a perfectly reasonable amount considering your recklessness in the past.”

He felt Geralt deliberately shove his shoulder as he walked past, the action playful, “Shut up. C’mon, I’m sure Marlene’s put something up and then you can mess around with the brace all you want.”

Regis touched the area his friend had knocked with a tentative hand, fingers curling around his own collarbone. The skin beneath his tunic tingled pleasantly and he smiled to himself briefly, looking out across one of the sprawling vineyards before following Geralt inside.

It was not long after a lunch of sandwiches and fruits from the kindly Marlene that there was a swift rap at the front door. Regis heard with ease as the majordomo opened the door and greeted the person – a young boy who appeared to be a post-runner – before tipping and promising to speak to the master of the house. The door to the dining room opened and B.B. stepped inside, a paper folded in one hand.

“Sir, there appears to be a contract for you from one Madame var Madier. I have been told to relay that it is a matter of urgency.”

Geralt got up from his chair and nodded, reaching out for the paper, “Thanks, B.B.”

“Of course, Sir. Will Sir be requiring his armour and equipment?”

Geralt’s eyes flicked over the letter, scanning quickly, “Don’t worry about it B.B., get Roach?”

The majordomo inclined his head as he left the room, “Of course, Sir. I’ll set the stablehand to it.”

“What manner of beast is it, dare I ask?” Regis said, standing from his own chair, food and drink forgotten.

“Ghoul’s nest in Orlémurs Cemetery. Easy job. Woman’s just upset they’re living in her husband’s crypt,” Geralt replied, passing the notice over for Regis to flick through as he grabbed the knee brace from a side table where he’d left it.

“Understandably so,” the vampire murmured, placing the paper on the table, “Will you be setting out right away?”

“Yeah. Less people in the graveyard at night, ghouls’ll be more active, easier to find. Less chance someone’ll get hurt too,” Geralt moved to the door.

“Of course, but please do be careful too, my friend,” Regis couldn’t help but say, worry creasing his brow and a nervous hand once again returning to that comforting spot on his shoulder strap. The witcher stopped and looked back, warm eyes alighting on his friend.

“Always am, Regis.”

The vampire tried to return the smile.

“Guest room’s there if you want it. Should be back tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Regis replied, knowing full well he didn’t intend on staying as per their strange routine, “I shall see you tomorrow, Geralt.”

“See you, Regis.”

The vampire lingered a while, even after Roach’s hooves thundered off into the distance, fingers nervously toying the strap, sharpened nails raking softly over the worn fabric. No matter how he tried to reason with himself, Regis felt deep down something could so easily go wrong. Even as he hurried outside and beckoned a raven to perch on his hand, he chided himself over and over.

_Just in case._

*

Regis was taking stock of his own medicinal inventory well into the night. Between his visits to Geralt and the few hours of regenerative sleep he managed to snatch, it was a job he’d put aside for too long. Besides, he was too anxious to regenerate. It was foolish to worry, he knew, but it was Geralt’s first contract with the knee brace and were something to go wrong because of it… it didn’t even bear thinking about. Regis would never be able to forgive himself.

A raven who had taken it upon herself to settle next to him as he organised bottles and bandages croaked softly, and he absently reached over to scratch her head with a clawed finger. The bird preened and cocked her head about, guiding the vampire’s finger to all the places that required attention. He looked up from his writing labels onto a scrap of parchment to watch with interest. _Truly fascinating little creatures_ , he mused. Where others saw senseless scavengers or ill omens, Regis saw intelligent beings, cunning, proud, and each unique in their personality. Dettlaff and indeed even other vampires had never understood his fondness for corvids but, watching as the raven keened into his touch and nipped affectionately at his hand, he knew he had made the right choice in earning their companionship.

“Fancy me behaving like a foolish old vampire,” He said softly, voice carrying in the silence of the crypt. The raven chirped, pulled at his finger, feathers about her neck ruffling, “I do hope he’s alright.”

She cawed again, louder this time and purred, a nasally chittering noise echoing in her beak. Regis smiled softly and conceded, “Yes, I’m quite sure you’re right. Geralt is fine.”

Still idly stroking her feathers with one hand, he returned to his quill, dipped it in the ink, and started to write once more.

*

Regis returned to Corvo Bianco late in the morning, early enough that the sun was not yet at its peak but late enough that the mist and dew along the slopes of the valley had dissipated. He was greeted by a chipper B.B. and was himself in better spirits; there had been no reports from the ravens of an unsavoury nature during the night and despite his worry, he’d managed to get quite a lot of labelling and organising done. His mind had wandered often to the witcher, out there somewhere fighting through a ghoul’s nest… but when it came to the ravens, no news was a positive thing. After all, they were instructed to only report back should something go awry.

After settling down on the patio, a book on horticulture in one hand and a cup of herbal tea in the other, he made himself comfortable on the bench there and waited out the hours until the witcher’s return. By now, Geralt was most likely receiving his reward in full or haggling for it. He rather hoped it was the former than the latter; witchers, in his opinion, were always underpaid considering their life-threatening profession, egregiously so in some cases.

He allowed himself to fall into a lull as he read, muting the rest of the world around him to focus on the words and their intricate diagrams. As he was reading into the scientific studies on celandine in alchemy and its greater and lesser variations, a screech shot through the quiet of his mind, ears automatically attuning to it.

_News._

Black eyes immediately fixed on the raven at his feet, hopping on the wooden boards frantically and cawing for attention. Regis practically threw the book aside, thoughts of celandine long gone, “What is it, my dear?”

The raven chirped, scuffing its talons on the wood and clicked its tongue against its beak, a rumbling squawk at the back of the throat accompanied by a spread of wings and fluffed feathers. To Regis it made perfect sense and a pit opened in his stomach. Cold, icy dread.

_Geralt was in trouble._

The bird did not relay to him an injury or even any blood, yet Regis grabbed his satchel anyway before releasing his form to the wind and misting upwards in a swirl of blue and grey smoke. He had just enough sense of mind to feel bad when he heard the teacup shatter on the ground.

He would certainly have to apologise for that to Marlene later.

Despite his preference for behaving with completely human mannerisms, Regis had to admit that a vampire’s mist form was superior to any form of human travel. Shedding one’s corporeal form was freeing. Where on foot it could be hours before he reached Geralt, as mist he was there in a matter of minutes, the world rolling past in streaks of colour the human eye could never begin to comprehend.

It was Roach who brought him to a halt, the chestnut mare rearing and stomping at a clear patch of grass among the headstones of the cemetery, chewing on the bit so hard she frothed at the mouth. With the sensation of what felt like air rushing to fill a confined space, Regis slipped back into his material form, palms up and hands outstretched before him. Though it would certainly not kill him, being kicked by a startled horse was never a pleasant experience.

“Roach. It’s me, my friend. It’s Regis. You know me,” He tried, a soothing lilt to his voice.

The large mare slammed her forelegs back down and paced on all fours, ears flicking as she heard him approach. Her tail was raised in fright, lashing at the air.

“Come now, my dear. It’s okay,” He listened out to the rustling of trees and the hares in the undergrowth. No immediate danger then, “It’s safe.”

Roach whickered, raised her top lip and huffed, but allowed the vampire to approach, eyeing him worriedly. Regis kept his moves slow but deliberate and was soon wrapping her reins about one hand, the other running a gentle palm down the white starburst of her forehead and along her snout. He could hear her powerful heartbeat slowing, no longer pounding furiously as it had done before.

Checking her over, Regis was pleased to find she wasn’t injured. He was less pleased to find Geralt’s belongings still in the saddlebags, potion pouch included. The only things missing were his blades, their oils, and one bottle of Cat.

“Now, where has our witcher run off to, Roach?” He asked, voice soft so as not to startle her again. The poor beast was still exceedingly jumpy. Regis was nowhere as proficient in controlling other animals – he’d never had much reason to learn beyond the corvids – but he was able to assuage the mare nevertheless. Significantly calmer, Roach led him along around the back of a crypt, trying to pull him along although it was a fruitless attempt to drag a Higher Vampire physically anywhere.

What met his gaze just around the corner of the stone fixture gave him pause. Two legs with awfully recognisable armour, a brace around the right knee. The witcher was lying flat out on the ground and from his limpness, Regis knew instantly that he was unconscious.

_Or dead._

He immediately admonished the treacherous thought.

_No, he can’t possibly-_

_The ravens would’ve said-_

_No._

He listened intently, opening up his hearing to be so sensitive that he could hear the street beyond the cemetery gate, a boat cutting through the water and, still so soft he could’ve missed it, Geralt’s heartbeat. Slow but so _faint_.

The oily stench of Cat potion permeated the air, mixed with the stark acrid scent of spectre oil. He clumsily untangled his fingers from Roach’s reins, distantly wondering when he had fisted them so tightly into his grasp.

“Geralt?” His voice cracked, paid it no mind, “Geralt!”

He hunkered down onto his knees, damp grass wetting his coat and leggings, even the thin fabric of his shoes. Roach whinnied nervously nearby. Geralt was flat on his back, eyes closed, head tilted to one side. His mouth hung slightly open; the source of the stench of Cat. Though there was no visible injury – Regis couldn’t even smell the faintest trace of blood – he was alarmed to see black veins crawling along the witcher’s pale skin and a sheen of sweat along his brow.

Clawed fingers reached out, careful not to break skin but firm enough to press the pulse point in the soft flesh of Geralt’s throat. Still slow, still steady, but still too faint. He took note of temperature next, the back of a hand against a forehead slick with sweat. Warm, far warmer than should be normal. Regis bit his lip, swallowed down the fear that threatened to take control, ran his fingers along the blackened veins either side of Geralt’s neck and face, seeping up into the shadows of his eye sockets. He removed the witcher’s gloves, checked his hands, found the same veins crawling out from ashen grey nails.

If he didn’t know any better Regis would assume Geralt had ingested too many potions, brought his blood to a near toxic level. But Geralt’s potion pouch was still in Roach’s saddlebags, there was only the scent of Cat on his breath and his pulse was normal if faint – there was no tell-tale rapidness of tachycardia. And yet, what if Geralt had made a new concoction, one Regis was not familiar with? It was extremely unlikely but more than the near-nothing he had to go on.

Perhaps someone had forced Geralt to ingest something? It would not be the first time. _And no doubt the last_ , he thought bitterly.

Without the scent of Geralt’s blood, Regis was going in blind. Usually when the witcher was practically overdosing, he had some sort of injury about his person, something that would tell him how much had been ingested and just how much was needed to neutralise it. He stared at the sharp curve of his own nail, mere centimetres from the skin of Geralt’s wrist.

Guilt reared its ugly head to claw at his insides.

“I’m so sorry, my friend,” He whispered, “I shall be quick.”

He looked at Geralt’s slack face, hoping against hope that the other would just wake up and stop him from having to do this. His finger twitched and his claw slipped down and across, cutting into Geralt’s skin and immediately drawing blood. The unconscious witcher didn’t so much as twitch as the metallic tang of copper filtered into the air. Regis pulled a small bandage from his pouch and swiftly bound the small wound. The blood was clean. Not even a lick of poison or illness.

Regis was at a loss.

He fumbled once more at the web-like veins down Geralt’s neck, checked his pulse again, noting that it was now faster but still fragile. He tentatively lifted the still-closed eyelids, prepared to mist if need be – a startled witcher was an all-round unpleasant affair and he didn’t wish to frighten his friend back into consciousness. Glazed over yellow irises greeted him, but the pupils reacted normally to the light and there were no burst vessels. He concluded no head injury.

_Thank goodness for small mercies._

Exasperated, Regis tried one last thorough examination, checking each limb for any breaks he could have missed, any bruising he might have somehow overlooked. His hands ghosted over Geralt’s torso, black eyes narrowed in concentration, feeling for any shift of bone, ripped muscle or-

_There!_

Regis almost sprung back in surprise as a rush of ice cold shocked his hands. He couldn’t see through the breastplate to discern what it was but right where his fingers would have met Geralt’s sternum was an intense cold spot unlike any he’d ever felt before; as though a hundred wraiths had converged on one specific point of the witcher’s chest. It was surely magical, but then why had Geralt’s medallion not alerted him?

His eyes flicked to the dip between Geralt’s collarbones where the large snarling amulet would sit and found nothing, not even the chain it hung from.

_Then where-?_

His gaze alighted on a flash of metal thrown some ten feet away to see Geralt’s silver sword and medallion cast into the dirt. Though the pendant was buried in mud, he could see and hear clear as day the shuddering of the chain as it twitched sporadically.

_Most definitely magic, then._

Determined, he reached out once again, skirting the cold radiating from Geralt’s chest to the straps that held the plate in place. Deft fingers made quick work of the buckles and soon he was lifting the piece away, unbuttoning the witcher’s tunic.

Roach abruptly reared with a screaming whinny and tossed her head as Regis pushed the folds of fabric aside to reveal a further network of broken black veins winding down and down and down until meeting at the breastbone. The vampire stared, black eyes unblinking as Roach thrashed and bucked and wailed. A murder of crows took off from the trees in a flurry of loud wings and indignant squawks.

Then silence fell. Silence so oppressive and heavy that when Regis spoke he almost flinched at how loud his voice seemed.

“Oh, Geralt…”

For there, embedded in the centre of the witcher’s chest like a brand, was a blackened shape, marring and withering the skin like an old scar. It branched out into five long points, tainting the skin around them a sickly grey.

A handprint sat over the witcher’s heart, so cold it almost burned to touch, and the magic about it so thick and revolting it made the vampire’s skin crawl and fangs itch.

“Geralt, what have you done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things about this chapter:  
> 1 - I wanted to have Geralt be responsible and take care of that old knee injury from way back in Brokilon, thus Regis intervened and made him a proper brace support for it he can wear whilst witchering.  
> 2 - It will probably take both Regis and Geralt a while to realise what's going on between them (I wasn't kidding when I said slow burn lol).  
> 3 - Basically Geralt took the contract for the ghoul's nest but ran into the ghost of Merlina on the job. Didn't end so well for him.  
> 4 - It's just a fun little headcanon I have that ravens aren't afraid of Regis because they're the only animals he's ever bothered to actually befriend. He has some sway over horses and mules for when he needs transport other than misting and Roach is a bit of an exception because she's a witcher's horse and is also used to seeing the vampire around being friends with Geralt.  
> 5 - I like describing how Regis does his vampire stuff like turning into mist or attuning his sensitive hearing to things. I just really love Regis full stop.
> 
> It'll most likely be 2 weeks now until the next chapter. Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Kudos and comments much welcome and appreciated <3


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Regis begin to look into who Merlina Denworth could be and, to say the least, it's off to a rocky start. Who ever said breaking a curse would be easy though?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long it's taken me to get this update out but I'm a university student and deadlines had me tied down. Plus I also wanted to lay out more of the plot officially in my notes for this story and I'm already really pleased with where it's going, I even have a solid ending in mind though that's a long way off yet haha.
> 
> I'll be able to update a lot more often over the winter break and I have the next few chapters drafted up for me to edit so hopefully you won't be kept waiting so long again!
> 
> Thank you so much for all the amazing comments so far, you're all so kind!
> 
> Some fun things about this chapter:
> 
> 1) I've been binge reading the books again and I enjoy referring back to the Hansa and putting in the little details of Geralt having his swords on hooks that are attached to Roach's saddle. You can expect Geralt to be moving his sword in the Sapkowski circular motions and pirouetting a lot when fight scenes come up lol
> 
> 2) I really enjoyed describing how Geralt's potions make him feel when they affect him and how they taste. Don't know why, I just enjoy it!
> 
> 3) I love writing Geralt using Signs so I indulged myself with some Igni this time around!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this update and please leave a kudos or a comment!

_The witcher lay in bed in the guest room of the house, blankets piled over him. His head propped on thick pillows as his body attempted to work through the worst of the fever. A cool cloth sat folded on his brow; skin so flushed his scars appeared vivid pink in the candlelight. His breaths came in reedy gasps, slivers between gritted teeth. The windows were closed tight, the fireplace at the end of the room stoked into a steady blaze, making the air stifling hot. The surgeon said it would help._

_She felt for the heated stone at the foot of the bed, grimacing at its cool touch before removing it, leaving her silent vigil to wrap another fire warmed stone from the hearth in a thin blanket. She pushed the cold one near the flames and returned to tuck the fresh one under the covers by the witcher’s feet. The poor man was a mess, long sweat-drenched locks plastered to his scalp and neck. His eyes moved wildly beneath their lids, clearly dreaming and of nothing pleasant._

_There was a sense of overwhelming uselessness that had settled on her after the surgeon had left. She couldn’t give the sick witcher any of his potions for neither she nor the medic were trained in such alchemy. They dared not give him anything lest they kill him. Not that any of the other townsfolk would care if the man expired any time soon. She was certain that even if she were to poison him, it would be written off as an accident._

_But she did not want the witcher to die._

_She knew he’d tried and though he’d failed in returning her father alive, he had slain the beast responsible. The fiend’s head sat rammed through an iron hook outside, attached to the saddle of the black horse he’d rode into town on just a few days ago. She had not asked his name then, only called him master witcher and made her demands. She promised herself that if the witcher pulled through she would be certain to ask him._

_Restless, she occupied herself with checking his bandages, inspecting the linen wraps for any bleeding or pus. The surgeon said he’d drained it all, but she had to be certain. Finding no yellowish stains or foul odours, she set about placing a fresh bandage to the worst cut on his left arm. Fifteen coarse stitches held the inflamed skin together and when it eventually healed it would be an ugly scar. But, she supposed, all witchers must have ugly scars. Her gaze mapped out the old marks carved into his chest and the left side of his jaw as she worked._

_There was something awe-inspiring about seeing a witcher this close. For so long she had merely heard the stories, legends. The few old wives’ tales about them being baby killers and how the lasses should be hidden whenever one came to town. She didn’t see what all the fuss was about; this witcher had been entirely polite and diligent in his work if only a little frightening to look at._

_She frowned as she wet the strip of cloth again and placed it back on his brow. The effect was immediate, the man’s breath sighing and evening out, unconsciously pushing into her hand as she pressed the fabric gently in place. Absentmindedly, one hand trailed down, tucked a damp stray curl back behind his ear, his soft cry of pain had her worrying her lower lip._

_Returning to the armchair in the corner of the room, she sat down. Nothing left to do. She couldn’t help the witcher any further much to her dismay. Instead, crossing her legs, she toyed nervously at the hem of her leggings and settled in for a long night’s vigil._

_The room fell silent and the fire burned._

* * *

 

Geralt came to abruptly and without warning.

One moment there was nothing but soft darkness and the next _everything_.

Much like shaking off a fiend’s hypnosis, colour, smell and sound slammed into him so suddenly that his fight or flight response peaked. He felt his left fingers poise into the curl of a prepared Quen, right ones reaching and grasping for a silver sword that was not there. Blood surged, roared in his ears, the pang of panic hitting him in the chest.

A drawn face with sunken eyes and withered skin came back to him. The stench of decay assaulted his nose, plastered to the roof of his mouth. _Merlina._

_Where was his sword?_

Someone was saying something to him, but it was distant; soft vibrations that thrummed against his eardrums. The scent of wormwood, aniseed, and other herbs, each so subtle in their variation reached through, pushed the stink of death aside. Calming, familiar, something safe to hold onto. A smell that dissolved Merlina’s gruesome visage from his mind and brought everything into focus. His body relaxed, tension bleeding out from his posture.

He was sat up in bed – his own bed – the wall hangings and that one crooked window latch that never caught properly instantly recognisable. Sheets pooled about his hips, a thin cloth shirt stuck to his skin, hair hanging loose and plastered to a sheen of sweat on his neck. He pulled a rag from his forehead, confused frown working its way onto his brow. Cat eyes sought out a familiar pair of ink black irises.

“Regis?”

Is what he intended to say, but the word got stuck in his throat, catching so hard he coughed. A slightly chipped mug appeared in front of his face, held by an elegantly clawed hand. He took it gratefully, relieved to have the cool touch of water on his tongue.

“Small sips, Geralt,” The vampire said, something unreadable in his expression as he took the damp rag from Geralt’s other hand. He sat on the edge of the bed, but the witcher’s eyes caught the armchair in the corner of the room, a blanket thrown haphazardly over the arm and the cushions still holding the dips from someone having recently vacated it. Geralt swallowed another mouthful of water and winced at the slight burn to his sore throat.

“What happened?”

Regis smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, “I believe _I_ should be asking _you_ that. What happened out there, Geralt?”

“Not sure. Some sort of wraith?” He placed the cup down between his knees as he sat more upright, scrubbed a hand down his face. There was something reassuring in feeling the scars there, fingertips working over the strange half-numb knots of old wounds. It was oddly comforting, tangible, helped anchor him down.

This was real.

He was awake. Safe. Regis had found him and-

“Roach.”

Cool fingers cupped his wrist gently, “Is well. You on the other hand, are less so. Tell me what happened, Geralt. You were supposed to be on a ghoul contract.”

He looked at Regis, “Yeah, I was,” He furrowed his brow, focused on recalling everything that had happened, “Only took oils with me, it was supposed to be a quick job. Found the ghouls, cleared them out, not even a scratch on me but-”

“But what?”

“As I was leaving there was a sound further in. It was screeching like a wraith. Thought I might as well take care of it while I was there, you know?”

Regis nodded. Geralt noticed a tightness about his dark eyes, the press of his lips – a look he’d only seen a few times before, when an injury was particularly nasty. He didn’t feel injured, no bruising, pain, or even the tug of stitches. Perhaps he’d been unconscious for a while? He’d have to ask as soon as Regis had the story out of him.

“There was this tomb down there, Regis,” Geralt continued, thinking back on the large statue marker of a dancing woman, “And it felt so… _sad_. Almost fell over.”

“‘Sad’?”

“Hm, more than that. Felt like grief. The grave belonged to a woman, Merlina Denworth. Read her name and the next thing I knew, her ghost appeared. She went on about wanting justice and then…” The witcher trailed off, surprised to find his hands cradled against his chest, fingers worked into the fabric of the shirt. He’d only noticed when Regis had reached out to give him a comforting squeeze on the shoulder.

“Does it hurt?”

Geralt frowned as the vampire set about pushing the witcher’s hands aside, “What’re you talking about?”

The answer Regis provided was not one with words for once. No fancy displays of vocabulary or the flourishes of language he was so used to hearing. Instead, his friend merely tugged the laces of his shirt and pulled the fabric down, exposing his sternum.

Geralt blinked, dumbfounded. There in the centre of his chest, stark against pale skin, was a black handprint. The shape sat raised, as though inflamed, and about it, the flesh was tainted a sickly grey, faint dark veins webbing outwards haphazardly. A hazy border that reached halfway across his pectorals and stopped just under the hollow of his throat. He brushed his own fingers against it tentatively.

_A cold so intense it burned like fire. Merlina’s bony hands grasping at him, clutching something deep inside. Chest tightening, lungs screaming for air, blinding pain. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t_ breathe _, he couldn’t-_

“Geralt,” Regis’ voice pulled him back, his face riddled with concern.

“What-?” Geralt started and broke off, so many questions tumbled through his mind, each vying to be the first asked.

“I believe you’ve been cursed, my friend.”

The witcher’s thoughts ground to a halt, brain tripping over the concept. A witcher was supposed to _break_ curses, not _be_ cursed. Geralt was far from the first witcher to be cursed and though he was certain he wouldn’t be the last, it was by no means a comforting thought. There was something profoundly ironic and wrong about all. For all his training and experience with curses over the decades, it had never once crossed his mind that there was ever a possibility he could become cursed.

“You sure?” He heard himself ask.

“Quite certain. Your medallion practically threw itself off you when I tried to put it back,” Regis stood up and crossed the room to a small chest of drawers, retrieving the necklace and bringing it over. He held it by the chain, letting the wolf’s head dangle as he approached. He barely brought it within arm’s reach of Geralt when it started shaking violently, practically wrestling against the vampire’s iron grip like a feral dog against a tether. Regis raised an eyebrow, his point clearly made, “I’m afraid it won’t be much use to you currently.” He placed it down on the bedside table, Geralt turning his head to watch it twitch and scuff along the wooden surface.

“I have to break it,” Geralt said, voice slightly hoarse as the medallion jumped, leaping off the table and onto the floor where it shuddered restlessly.

“Indeed, _we_ shall break it. No-” He held up a hand, cutting the witcher’s protest off, “You are my dearest friend, Geralt, there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Besides, two heads are better than one and I’ve already started planning our next steps.”

“Regis, you can’t be serious.”

“Deathly so, my friend.”

The vampire’s face betrayed no doubt, not even the faintest trace, and Geralt swallowed tightly, “Don’t have to. It’s my problem, I caused it.”

“I believe our friend Milva once informed you how successful lone wolves actually are.”

Geralt’s mouth curved up slightly at that, “Got me there.”

Regis huffed and watched cautiously as Geralt suddenly swung his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet. When it became apparent the witcher wasn’t about to keel over, the vampire’s expression considerably relaxed. Nevertheless, he offered his shoulder for Geralt to lean against as they walked, the witcher still tired and limping slightly on his stiffened knee.

“Let’s get you something to eat, Geralt. You’ve been unconscious for a while.”

“How long?”

He saw Regis do the calculations in his head, “Roughly eighteen hours. It’s early morning now.”

“Huh, explains why I’m hungry,” Geralt said, stomach grumbling in affirmation.

“How lucky you are to have a cook as skilled as Marlene then.”

Geralt smiled, an amused huff escaping his mouth as he leaned heavily against Regis, not having to worry about how much weight he was forcing onto his friend. A vampire’s strength could support a lot after all. They shuffled out of Geralt’s room and into the hallway, the witcher’s right leg dragging minutely behind him with each step. Slowly but surely, the joint was loosening. He wondered briefly where the brace went but was sure it was somewhere, Regis most likely having removed and put it away. The vampire gave him a soft smile and filled the quiet with telling Geralt everything about his condition, explaining how the mark on his chest was considerably smaller than when Regis had first found it.

The witcher felt a warmth in his stomach, a comforting sensation that eased his nerves. Regis was always incredibly patient and kind, perhaps more than Geralt ever deserved. Not that he would voice that aloud; Regis was always insisting on Geralt’s ‘finer qualities’ and how good of a person he was. It was something witchers didn’t hear often, if ever. How amusing it would seem to others that such compliments were made by a vampire to a witcher. But Geralt and Regis had always been somewhat odd bedfellows like that, ever since the Hansa and even before the events that revealed his friend’s true nature to him.

Regis helped him to a chair at the table and made sure Geralt ate every last bit of the stew Marlene set in front of him. By the time his stomach was filled he was feeling better, the stiffness in his knee a dull ache and the fatigue in his limbs fading away. One hand, however, still subconsciously made its way to his chest, fingers toying at the laces but the palm always hovering over the mark hidden by the cloth of his shirt. It was unsettling to know it was there, branded deep into his skin and branching out over his ribs. It sent a crawling sensation along his neck and spine, and his throat felt almost exposed without his wolf medallion weighing down there.

He pushed his empty bowl away and folded his arms, leaning on them as he looked to Regis at the other end of the table, “So, what’s the plan?”

Regis glanced up from where he’d been staring at Geralt’s chest, his eyes having been firmly locked on where they both knew the handprint was hidden. The unreadable expression he’d had when Geralt first woke up was back, “Hm? Oh. Yes. Of course. I’ve narrowed our course of action down to three significant areas. First, we must find the contract issuer, this Madame var Madier. Not only must you collect your reward for the ghouls, but she may know more of this tomb you saw. If we’re lucky, she might also know of Merlina Denworth. Secondly, we should return to Merlina’s grave, see if we can glean any more facts or clues there. And, finally, we should look through your collection of books in the lab downstairs – surely someone must have written something of note about what type of curse this is and how we can break it.”

Geralt nodded, listening to Regis’ entirely reasonable plan. The surety in his voice put the nagging worry in the back of his mind at ease, “We’ll start with var Madier then. I’ll find B.B., ask him what the address was on that contract.”

“A sound idea, my friend.”

Geralt paused as he stood from his chair, using the table as support briefly, “Regis?”

“Yes, Geralt?”

“Thanks.”

Regis smiled, enough so that the tips of his fangs could be seen – something that didn’t happen often, Geralt noted – and inclined his head, “Anytime, my friend.”

* * *

 

Geralt ended up going to the var Madier residence alone, Regis promising to meet him the Orlémurs Cemetery afterwards. The witcher asked how the vampire would know when to meet up when Regis gave him a conspiratorial look and glanced out the window to a raven sitting on the fence outside. Geralt had snorted; he should’ve known.

Though his payment had been good, a fat purse of coin now hidden away in Roach’s saddlebag, Madame var Madier had nothing to offer in terms of information. The old woman had never even heard of the family name Denworth and knew only that the grave had been there long before her husband was buried. She’d thanked Geralt profusely again for his work and tried to offer him yet another cup of tea before he made his excuses and left, swinging into Roach’s saddle and setting off at a brisk trot.

The early afternoon sun was warm, bathing the cobbled streets in golden light. A few townsfolk milled about, though most seemed to have moved indoors if the muffled sound of voices from a nearby tavern were anything to go by. Reaching the cemetery gate, Geralt dismounted and took Roach by the reins, tying her to a lopsided post by the wall. This time he took everything from her saddlebags, clipping bombs, oils, and potions to his belts with practised ease. Removing his swords from their hooks, he buckled them over his pauldron and breastplate, pulling the leather straps tight.

Few people walked the gravel paths that snaked about the complex and winding layout of the Orlémurs Cemetery. The odd man and woman spared him a cursory glance and nod; others too invested in paying respects to loved ones to pay much mind to the witcher in their midst. As he stalked the route back to the underground complex of Monsieur var Madier, some distant part of Geralt’s heart ached for a stone marking much like those around him. He should winter at Kaer Morhen again, visit Vesemir. Perhaps Eskel and Lambert could be persuaded to join him – he was sure the mere mention of bringing strong Toussaint wine would be more than enough.

Perhaps Regis would come too.

He descended the steps down into the crypt, leather boots light on the stone. The wrought iron gate groaned painfully as he pushed it aside, free hand moving with practised ease to slip out a bottle of Cat and open it. The viscous liquid slipped down his throat, bitter and acrid at the back of his mouth as he returned the empty container to its pouch. Tongue running across his teeth to remove the greasy residue, Geralt felt the potion hit him as all the concoctions did.

Where Swallow thrummed excitedly through his veins, or Black Blood clawed savagely at his insides, Cat was a gentle, more subtle experience. The skin about his face warmed, centring on the sockets about his eyes with tingles akin to a limb that had fallen asleep. He felt the slits of his pupils widen of their own accord, a slightly disturbing sensation even after all these years, and the dark of the crypt dwindle, any minimal sliver of light magnified tenfold so that the world became a menagerie of monochrome. His sense of smell heightened, and, amid the scent of decay and damp, the light note of aniseed and wormwood touched the air. Undoubtedly, Regis had passed through.

Geralt blinked once, attuning to the perception of the dark, and pushed on, the skin of his throat bare without his medallion.

 

-

 

“I believe this is it, then?”

Geralt had caught up to Regis halfway through the tunnels, the witcher finding his friend stood rather awkwardly near an old, forgotten tomb. Apparently, the vampire had waited as soon as he’d heard the muffled footsteps and caught the scent of a Cat potion. It never ceased to impress Geralt how sensitive Regis’ senses were. The vampire behaved so… so _mundane_ at times, that it was easy for the witcher to simply forget he was in the presence of a creature who could crush every bone in his body with the flick of a wrist. Not that Regis ever would. No, not gentle, human Regis, who fussed over Geralt skipping a single meal, who became filled with unbridled glee the moment he saw the witcher’s extensive collection of bestiaries, and who slipped Roach an extra apple when he thought Geralt wasn’t paying attention. He had come to think that the centuries’ old vampire was more human than most he’d ever known; truly the epitome of humanity.

And so it was surprising, jarring almost, when Regis so offhandedly mentioned such things as being able to single Geralt out in a crowd of people; that he knew each scent of his witchers’ potions as intimately as Geralt did himself. But it was never unsettling, it never had been really. Not even when Regis had first revealed his identity. It had been _hurt_ , not fear that had driven his sword to press at Regis’ throat all those years ago. Even then it had been awe-inspiring, the way the vampire had conceded and misted into the night with a rush of air and the faint smell of burnt ozone.

As Geralt looked at Regis now, cast in shades of white and black, he was painfully aware of each line on the vampire’s face, the faint streaks in his now short hair. He recalled a younger face, framed by long black locks, and a more formal outfit than the almost shabby surgeon’s clothes he wore now. Regis was no longer the suspected tax-collector nervously hiding behind a headstone, and yet the hook of his nose, the voids of his black eyes remained the same; familiar, warm, comforting.

Geralt cleared his throat, cast his eyes about the place, gaze catching on the curved marble shape of the dancing woman, the stillness of the tomb raised from the floor, “Yeah. This is it.”

Regis slipped past, feet silent on the ground as he wandered about, brows creased in a frown as he took the statue in from all angles. Geralt took five steps in before blinking harshly, the effects of the Cat potion wearing thin. With the few last discernible shapes he could make out, he extended a hand towards a brazier, thumb, middle and index finger outstretched and flicked his wrist. A spark burst to life and the few old coals in the bracket caught, feeding the flame and casting the tomb in a weak glow. Regis cast him a look.

“Don’t wanna waste the last bottle,” Geralt said, voice carrying in the cavern of a room, before sparking up another brazier with a few coals left untouched by the damp. Somewhere behind him Regis hummed.

Other than the statue and the tomb, there was little else in the room save for a puddle in one corner where the excess moisture from the moss slicked walls had congregated. Geralt folded his arms across his chest, shifting from one foot to another idly as he waited for Regis’ verdict. He drummed the fingers of his right hand against his left bicep, prepared to drop Yrden should Merlina or any other wraith choose to show itself. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, an unspoken tension hung in the air as Regis rounded the statue and took in the slab sealing the tomb, fingers running down the cold stone with a faint rasp of clawed nails.

“And you spoke the name, you said?” Regis asked, not looking up as his hand moved across to the engraved lettering.

Geralt felt as though his very teeth were on edge, the slightly sharper curve of his canines pressing hard into his cheeks as his friend leaned in close to inspect the writing better, murmuring something as he did so. The witcher let out a shaky breath, the air misting from his mouth in a wisp of perspiration. Through the thick layers of armour and tunic, he could feel his skin crawl, raising to gooseflesh. Damn, it was _freezing_. Had it always been this cold? Another huff of steam left him, the puff of air almost scalding against his numb lips.

“-alt. _Geralt._ ”

Black eyes. So close Geralt could practically see his own yellow ones reflected back at him in slivers. Regis’ hand curved over his own, warm against his skin. Odd, why was Regis suddenly so warm? The vampire usually ran at least a couple of shades cooler than him…

“You’re so _cold_ ,” Regis sounded horrified and Geralt’s sluggish mind watched as his own hand was pulled forcefully away from his chest where the blackened mark sat beneath treated leather, throbbing dully. Funny, Geralt didn’t recall putting his hand there. He blinked in confusion.

“Warm,” He mumbled, looking down at the vampire’s hand wrapped about his, and felt Regis’ gaze on him for a heavy moment before the room tilted and he was being pulled back the way they had come into Merlina’s tomb. Geralt’s brain stumbled to realise it was _Regis_ leading him away, an arm behind his back that wasn’t entirely shoving him forward but certainly brooked no argument.

“-gis?” Most of the name was lost as Geralt let himself be hurried along. _Stupid to resist a Higher Vampire,_ his foggy head supplied. But what about the tomb?

“We are leaving, Geralt,” Regis said, voice stern and when Geralt spared a look, his friend’s face was grim, a worried expression in his eyes.

“But-”

“I said we are leaving.”

The concern in Regis’ voice was enough to pierce Geralt’s clouded thoughts and he settled for leaning against the vampire who took his weight with ease. This close, the smell of aniseed and wormwood hung about Regis’ coat like an aura reaching out, and the witcher anchored himself to it as he stumbled through the tunnels and the haze in his head, soothing and safe.

There had always been something comforting about aniseed and wormwood.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sent back to Corvo Bianco by Regis, Geralt decides to put his study to use.  
> Some pieces start to fall into place.
> 
> (Edits have been made, but only small and they don't change the outcome nor the story in this chapter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of content warnings for this chapter:
> 
> 1) Very brief description of Geralt going through the Trial of the Grasses a second time as a child.
> 
> 2) A brief mention of a past suicidal thought that is not acted upon.
> 
> 3) Description of a dead body.
> 
> Additionally, this story has gone up to a Mature rating now, not just because of potential sexual content, but also because of descriptions of violence and injuries.

_Her father was wheeled off that morning, or what remained of him was._

_The cart trundled down the road, wheels clattering on the wet cobblestones as the rain lashed down. She stood in the doorway, shawl pulled tight about her shoulders as she watched it go further and further away until she could no longer see the contraption nor the dejected-looking mule that pulled it._

_She would have to bury him soon, pay the local priest of the Eternal Fire to inter her father next to her mother; it’s what he would have wanted. Cold fingers rubbed at her nose, rubbed away the flecks of rainwater that had caught her face on the crosswind. It seemed all too real now; she was truly alone. No parents, no siblings, no extended family she knew of. Her eyes burned hotly._

_Something moved out of the corner of her eye._

_She turned sharply, just in time to catch a figure stumbling into the stables adjacent to the side of the house. Tossing the shawl up to cover her head, she followed, shoes slapping through the puddles._

_"Brann?” She called, half expecting the stable hand to appear before her as she pushed the door aside. The stench of damp hay and musty horsehair made her sniff and two of the three horses whickered inside their stalls, surprised by her presence. The large black shape of the witcher’s mount stood completely still, eying her up and down as though it were judging, assessing the next move she would make. Upon its back, a saddle had been pulled tight, and the sound of buckles rung from behind it. Moments later, a pair of trembling hands set about hitching up the bags._

_She frowned, giving the creature a wide berth as she stepped around it to the other side, “Brann? Brann, what are you doing? That’s the witcher’s-”_

_She halted._

_Not Brann, but the witcher was practically slumped against the horse, hands fumbling with the reins and legs barely holding him up. His hair, that strange fiery orange, was slick with rain and sweat. The colour was drained from his skin, sallow and ashen, dark rings about the hollows of his eyes. He looked at her and she tried not to flinch at the unearthly yellow irises. She noticed his silver sword stood propped against the wall beside him, not yet attached to the belt about his waist. She wondered if he even had the strength to pick it up._

_“Master Witcher?” Her voice trailed off, lilted up into a question, but what it was she was intending to ask, she had no idea. She was stunned. The witcher had still been unconscious when she had left his bedside to tend to her father’s removal, she couldn’t have left him more than a few moments. He shouldn’t be up, couldn’t possibly be; he was still too sick. Distantly, she recalled having heard that witchers were more resilient than mere men, but no man, witcher or otherwise, could recover so quickly… could they?_

_She hadn’t time to ask, the witcher stumbled slightly, dropping the reins as the bridle he’d been trying to hitch fell to the ground and struck the floor with a loud crash. He cursed, voice deep and rasping, and she found herself moving on instinct, hands reaching out to help._

_But the witcher flinched sharply, avoiding her touch as though it would burn him. He grasped at the saddle so tight his knuckles turned bone white._

_“I have to… return to the Path.”_

_His voice was gravel underfoot, scraping against her ears, and setting something primal within her on edge – fight or flight. Everything about the man frightened her and yet she couldn’t let him go. He was sick, the pallor of his skin and the way he swayed so obvious. He wouldn’t last a day out there, not like this. A witcher’s life was too dangerous._

_“Please, Master Witcher, at least-”_

_“No.” He was sharp, tone brooking no argument, “I’ve stayed here long enough.”_

_“You aren’t healed!” She found herself getting irritated. Could he not see how sick he was? Were all witchers so pig-headed?_

_“I’ll be fine,” He reached for his silver sword with heavy fingers, still too off balance to dare let go of the horse’s saddle._

_She made her decision._

_Before he could close his hand about the handle of the blade, she had snatched it into her own. The weapon was heavier than she’d anticipated and though she had to use both hands, she had dragged it from his reach. There was something terrifying and liberating in holding the deadly sword herself and she caught the look of genuine surprise in the witcher’s eyes._

_“You will stay,” She commanded, trying to ignore the slight tremble in her voice. The witcher was taller, stronger, imposing. He could take the weapon back easily if he tried._

_"You'll get this back," She raised the sword slightly, certain her whole body was trembling like a leaf at this point, "When you're well again."_

_The witcher smiled dangerously, heart leaping to her throat when she caught the curve of his teeth, pointed and sharp. More a beast than a man._

_"And what… if I just take it from you?"_

_A tension pervaded the enclosed space, so tight that the other two horses threw themselves at the walls of their pens, baying to be let free, to flee from this monster in their midst. The black mount watched impassively, waiting to see who would make the first move with dark eyes._

_Her heart pummelled against her ribs, so loudly she was certain the witcher could hear it. The gauntness of his face and his bloodshot eyes gave him a feral quality, as though she had been caught in the den of a wolf. She held the sword tighter to her chest, raised her head up despite the raw fear that consumed every fibre of her being._

_"Then take it. That is, if you can even stand by yourself," She looked pointedly at the saddle he clung to, anything to tear her gaze from those awful, awful eyes._

_And then, the witcher laughed._

_It was a sharp sound, a bark that made every muscle in her body tense and sent the horses silent._

_"Miss Denworth, right?"_

_She nodded, fingers aching painfully from how hard she gripped the sword, "Merlina. It's Merlina."_

_"Merlina," He said, and the sound of her name in his mouth sent shivers down her spine. Again she was fixed with otherworldly eyes, "Kristov."_

_She blinked, mind so addled in a haze of fear and relief that it took her a moment to realise he was saying his own name._

_Kristov._

_So plain._

_So…_ human _._

_"Consider me bested," He said, voice now a hoarse whisper. Merlina lunged on instinct, tossing the sword aside as the witcher dropped like a bag of stones to the ground. She couldn't lift him nor prop him up against her, but she managed to prevent his head from striking the floor. Panicked fingers smoothed back the matted hair from his face, the heat of his skin almost too hot for her to touch as she clutched at him, shaking him roughly._

_"Master Witcher!_ Kristov! _" She cried, a gasp escaping her mouth as she pulled her hand from his left sleeve, horrified to find it streaked red with blood, "Brann! BRANN! Someone_ help!"

_Rain lashed against the stable roof, the thunder of footsteps rang from outside and the black mount watched curiously as she held its master in her arms, dark gaze piercing._

_About the witcher’s neck, the silvery head of a cat medallion gleamed._

* * *

 

“M’fine, Regis.”

Geralt leaned against Roach where she was still tied to the post, nickering anxiously. The heat that radiated from the mare’s body warmed him through, pushing the already receding cold out of his limbs quicker. He clung to the saddle as she shifted side to side, tail lashing and ears flicking as she clearly fretted for her master. Regis was no better as he fussed about behind him.

“I daresay you most certainly are not, my friend. You were practically blue,” The vampire said, voice level, a little too even and calm. Geralt knew well enough to recognise the concern behind the words.

“Not now though,” Geralt said, forehead pressed against the saddle seat, breathing in the scent of blade oil and worn leather. It was true; the further away from the grave they’d got, the better he’d felt. Only fatigue clung to his arms and legs now and he could practically hear his bed at Corvo Bianco calling out to him. He raised his head, turning around to see Regis watching him cautiously, fingers wringing the strap of his satchel out of habit. The witcher sighed softly, “You alright?”

Emotions flitted in quick succession across the vampire’s face; worry, confusion at Geralt’s question, and a brief sharp look that the witcher knew was Regis considering whether or not to scold him. Eventually, Regis’ eyes softened and he shook his head minutely, one corner of his mouth curling up, “Whilst I appreciate the concern, I believe that once again I should be asking that of you.”

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, yawning shadows stretching out into the street that ran away from the cemetery gates and amber light catching in the warped glass panes of windows. Somewhere ahead, raised voices laughed and jeered as a game of Gwent became deeply heated, alcohol slurring words and causing a faint note of wine to waft through the air. Geralt nodded, ran a hand roughly through his hair, mussing the tangled white strands and distantly recalled that he’d planned to get it cut again at some point, “Yeah. M’fine. Better now we’re outta there.”

Regis released the strap of his bag and tilted his head, clearly wanting to say something more before stepping aside, “Then I suggest we leave. Do you require help?”

The vampire gestured towards Roach but Geralt shook his head, pulling himself up into the saddle with a tad more stiffness than he was used to. It was as the witcher turned the mare about that he noticed Regis wasn’t following him. A questioning look had Regis clear his throat, “Ah, yes. Well, I was thinking that perhaps it is best for you to return to Corvo Bianco and rest whilst I make the most of the time we have today to follow up a few things.”

“Things?”

“Yes, it appears that you cannot enter that place without nearly freezing to death, so I plan to go back, see if there was anything I overlooked. I might also talk to the graveyard’s keeper and attempt to find some burial records.”

Geralt huffed, “Doing my job for me?” It was meant in jest but the tightness about Regis’ eyes had Geralt falter.

“You do not have to do everything entirely alone, my friend,” He said, as serious as Geralt could ever recall Regis being. More serious than that night in Tesham Mutna…

“Regis-”

He was cut off by his friend suddenly turning about foot, voice chipper and more playful, as though he hadn’t just pinned the witcher down with his severe black eyes and lectured him, “You would do well to return to your vineyard, Geralt. And I shall know if you don’t.”

Geralt rolled his eyes at the light warning which was accompanied by a flurry of wings from one of the nearby houses. He didn’t need to look to know it was a raven. A light press of spurs into Roach’s sides had her move on, walking in the opposite direction from Regis with a soft, “Don’t need to spy on me,” under his breath.

In a simple display of his heightened senses, Regis peered around the arched gateway, a sincere and charming smile brightening his features though it was close-lipped in that strange way he did when out in public, “I prefer knowing what my hedonistic witcher is up to. It’s the only way to be sure you stay out of trouble or at least for me to come and pull you from it.”

And then he vanished again, leaving Geralt to make a small grunt of amusement before spurring Roach into a light trot and heading, as told for once, back to Corvo Bianco. Deep in his chest he felt an ache that latched onto Regis’ words. _My witcher._ How strange and how right that sounded.

Roach’s hooves struck the ground hard, leaning into a canter as they left the built up streets for dirt countryside roads. The air stuck his face, cool and freeing, the rhythm and movement of the horse beneath him familiar and strong, burning out the stiffness in his joints and grounding him again. All semblance of cold had drained from him now, filled instead by the friction chafe of the saddle against his legs and the lathering of Roach’s flanks. Some time ahead he spied the whitewashed walls, the dip of the Sansretour Valley rising in a steady incline as he slowed Roach down and turned her about the courtyard before the villa. _How odd it is_ , he thought, looking up at the building he had made his own, _to have a place one can consider as home._

He handed Roach off to a stable hand, letting him lead her away after grabbing some kit from her saddlebags. Above the villa’s entrance, two ravens scuffled, cocking their heads curiously. Geralt ignored them as he pushed the door open, calling in a short greeting so that B.B. would know he was back. If Regis wanted to keep an eye on him then there was nothing he could do about it. Geralt had tried everything from scaring the birds off to bribing them with sweetmeats to leave him be, all it had resulted in was his actions being ratted out and brought up over dinner once by the vampire. He’d practically choked on his drink when Regis had informed him that the ravens had merely found him amusing when he’d attempted to frighten them with a ladle and a pot lid.

“They’re _ravens_ , Geralt, not an _eyehead,_ ” He’d admonished, trying not to laugh at the indignant look on the witcher’s face.

_Damned birds._

He shucked off the potion belt from around himself, unbuckling the other leather straps that holstered the iron hook and other menial gear. His swords and weapons had remained on Roach’s saddle harness and would no doubt reappear again on their allocated wall hooks once she was settled back in her stall. Well, if Regis was going to insist on his promise to keep an eye on him then Geralt would use the time until the vampire returned wisely. First, to refill his Cat and then… his mind wandered to the books in his study. Perhaps he could find something of worth.

He slipped downstairs, setting a carefully measured brew of Cat into the distillate. As the elixir began to heat up, the refined concoction slipping down the condenser, he noticed rather belatedly that Regis’ own distillate sat mumbling to itself in the corner. The contraption was a large thing, so big that Geralt had brought its own table down into the cellar despite Regis’ sputtered excuses that he ‘really did not wish to impose’. He had promptly ignored him and, after seeing Geralt would not back down, Regis had sighed, ‘At least let me help you, you stubborn witcher’.

And so they had spent the afternoon putting it together. Geralt knew Regis could probably put every piece in its right place without even having to look, but he had smiled and gestured to the scattered parts and asked if he would like to help in a way that made his chest tighten as it so often did when he was around Regis. The witcher had sat upon the table, feet idly swinging as Regis passed him up a part and explained its proper location and how to attach it with the same lengthy words and passion he gave to everything he cared about.

It was… endearing.

Placing a spare glass underneath, Geralt turned the tap briefly so that a small amount of liquid escaped. The smell of mandrake, belladonna and cinnamon was exceedingly strong but in a manner that had Geralt thinking fondly rather than gagging. The hooch was not yet fully fermented, granules of mash sinking to the bottom of the glass heavily and he tipped it into the small bucket kept under the table for test draws.

_“… I never permit myself any stimulants. My health isn’t what it was. I’ve been forced to give up many… pleasures.”_

_Geralt cleared his throat, trying to nullify the tickling burn as the moonshine snaked down, warming him from the inside out, “Not even a sip?” It seemed a damned shame that the surgeon made such fine alcohol and yet wouldn’t taste it himself._

_Regis spoke calmly but there was a hesitant quality hanging about his features, his expression unsure in a way so minute that only Geralt caught it as he ignored Zoltan and Dandelion’s drunken argument in the background, “It’s a principle,” he said, “I never break any principles once I’ve adopted them.”_

_Geralt looked at the thin barber-surgeon from Dillingen with his black eyes and the nervous pull of his fingers on the strap of his satchel or the hem of the apron he wore and frowned for a moment, sensing the weight of Regis’ words. There was something heavy that clung to them, something that rang of an unpleasant experience threatening to surface. He raised the flask awkwardly to his lips and nodded, “Then I admire and envy your resoluteness.”_

_Regis looked at him, stunned._

_Geralt looked away and drained the flask in one go. It burned the whole way down._

It was rather charming to know that Regis was still both that flighty, academic man Geralt had met creeping around an elven graveyard in the middle of the night, and also nothing like him. _He’s come a long way_ , Geralt considered, though he knew the vampire didn’t see it that way. No, instead Regis was rather insistent on punishing himself for even the slightest of mishaps. Though he had pulled through Tesham Mutna – a still rather sensitive topic for the both of them – and not caved to the blood lust, Regis still blamed himself for losing control in the first place. It was hardly his fault, a mix of sangurium and raven’s blood with a bloodshed of necrophages would have driven any vampire regardless of their sensibilities, wild, and yet Regis seemed to be disgusted by the fact he’d succumbed to it.

They stood on two sides of a ravine; Geralt sided with his unwavering faith in him, and Regis stood out of reach on the other side of despair and regret. Separating them was a pit of unfathomable darkness, the murky depths of their feelings on the matter a no man’s land that neither would take the plunge into. Geralt had found himself toeing the line before, considering the precarious ledge, wanting to throw it all to hell and throttle some sense into Regis if he had to, but he backed down every time because there was something _there_. Something big shifting in the space between them, hidden and indiscernible through the hazy shadows, something that made Geralt feel he could never be ready to face it.

And so he didn’t.

He let it all hang unspoken in the air hoping against hope that one day Regis would step forward and take it all into hand because he didn’t mind when the vampire took control of things. He wasn’t like Yen had been, was never severe nor carried a note of condescension in his voice. Regis was too kind for that. He simply picked the pieces up and helped Geralt look at them again, never frustrated and always so endlessly patient. And yet this was the one instance where Regis refused him, simply choosing to remain distant whilst Geralt looked at the space between them and wondered when they would just _talk_ about it.

Replacing the glass, he headed back upstairs to the peace of the villa, mind churning with thoughts he’d rather not examine right now. As he stepped into the study, closing the door behind him, he grounded himself by opening his hearing; the light footsteps of B.B. and Marlene’s soft singing from the kitchen soothing him. He latched on to her half muttered words, the tune one he recalled Dandelion singing from time to time:

_Look how the wolf dances in the holt._  
_Teeth bared, tail waving, leaping like a colt._  
_Oh, why does he prance like one bewitched?_  
_The frolicking beast simply hasn’t been hitched._

Marlene hummed to herself, muted through the walls and Geralt exhaled a laugh through his nose as he remembered how the bard would use it to wind him up, strumming his lute and wiggling his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner whenever he mentioned the wolf. Geralt would grumble at the implication, hiding his face in his drink or behind his hair until he’d had enough and would pull the troubadour down onto a seat, fighting a laugh when Dandelion would squawk in mock outrage.

He hoped Dandelion and Priscilla were well, that they had found happiness.

He should write them more often.

Perusing the collection of tomes, some aged and yellowing, others newly bound volumes of recent editions, he selected a few of interest, fingers running along the spines before tugging the book out and setting it on the writing desk. By the end he had five in total: two encyclopaedias of Conjuctional creatures and illnesses, one documentation of folklore from across the continent, an old witcher’s compendium of curses, and wrapped in a cloth to keep the air from getting to it was Geralt’s trusty bestiary. Given to him at age ten by Vesemir, it had been with him through thick and thin but, from years spent on the Path it was almost falling apart.

He slipped it from the wrapped fabric reverently, careful not to jostle the cover too much lest the bindings finally crumble and the pages spill all over the floor. A leshen’s claws had all but shredded the leatherwork and the pages were creased and torn from years of being tossed into bag after bag after bag with either little care or in sheer panic as he’d tried to flee the beast he’d been attempting to read up on. Turning the pages gently, he thumbed through paper sheets filled in the margins with his blocky childhood lettering, ink stains galore from little practise with a quill. His eyes caught some of Vesemir’s old sayings and cautions – even that one crude drawing of the old man Lambert had scrawled in for a laugh.

They’d both got into trouble for that one; ten straight runs on the Gauntlet that had Lambert’s pride and body bruised, and Geralt tumbling to the ground with a broken collarbone and a light concussion. Vesemir, despite his initial punishing of them, had been the one to bind Geralt’s arm, shove some Swallow into his and Lambert’s mouths and laugh when the young witchers had pulled a face at the taste. Lambert spent the years resenting Vesemir, and Geralt understood, he really did, even if he didn’t agree with it – to have been taken away from one’s parents at an age older than most boys were, was a kind of pain Geralt hadn’t known. In his earlier years on the Path, he could’ve sworn he still remembered his mother, but the years had taken that from him too, washing away the vague memory of her face until he had nothing left. Lambert was the opposite, he remembered it all, and he never forgave, and he never forgot. An almost impossible thing to do when you could still see clearly the face of the man who had given you up so easily, and the grizzled old witcher who had dared get in your way. There was rage there but, more than that, there was _hurt_. Repressed, unaddressed and raw from years without processing it. Vesemir hadn't deserved Lambert's anger, but Lambert wasn't completely to blame.

Despite it all, Geralt had seen it sometimes in Lambert’s – and even Eskel’s – face; the realisation that Vesemir was kinder to them than the other trainers were. ‘Harsh but fair’ Eskel had said once and Geralt wholeheartedly agreed. After all, it was Vesemir who had sat with him, cared for him when the second Trial of the Grasses stripped him of his sight and left him terrified, screaming into the dark. His hand had gripped Geralt’s own, tried to keep his temperature down as Geralt burned and burned, devoured from the inside out, strapped tight to Sad Albert as his body fell apart and built itself back up _again_.

When Geralt had come out on the other side, hair white, skin pale, and voice trashed, it was Vesemir who had treated him no differently. Geralt saw how the others had looked at him, how the boys were afraid and how every trainer’s fingers itched, like they would draw their swords on him should he put a single toe out of line. An outsider amongst the outsiders.

A monster amongst the witchers.

Never to fit in, to belong. They’d taken what little he’d had from him.

But there was Vesemir, fiercely defensive, always encouraging, he’d even brought Eskel and Lambert around once their initial shock at seeing Geralt so changed had worn off. Without Vesemir’s support then… well, he would have surely dashed himself off the rocky slopes that supported Kaer Morhen, like every other boy who’d grown too overwhelmed by it all.

Geralt ran his fingers over the slightly faded doodle with a faint tug at his lips. Lambert had never been much of an artist, but he had to admit, he’d captured Vesemir’s disapproving scowl perfectly. As he fingered through bookmarks and dog ears, he settled himself down into the chair at the desk, right leg stretched out to quell the sharp ache starting to flare up in his knee. Eyes glossing over indexes and appendices, he sighed and tried not to focus on the strange, gentle pulsing of the handprint on his sternum.

He found himself rather lost in the texts, having moved on from the bestiary to the compendium of curses when he could not find much more on wraiths than he already knew. So enraptured was he that when Regis cleared his throat Geralt bodily flinched, sending an inkwell flying from the desktop and to the ground where it shattered. Or, rather, it _would have_ if Regis hadn’t moved faster than Geralt’s eyes could track, plucking it from mid-air with a grace and fluidity that belied the form he took as a middle aged man.

Setting the small glass bottle in the centre of the desk – far away from the edges – he indicated to the leather scroll case underneath one arm, “I managed to request access to the burial records. The grave keeper, a lovely young woman, presented me these when my returning to Merlina’s tomb proved fruitless. It’s only the basics, the name of payer for the lot and that of her birth town, but she said she would put a word in with- what?”

Geralt blinked, eyes suddenly breaking away from where he’d been staring at Regis’ face, lost in black eyes and the soft lines about them, “Hm?”

“You look exhausted, my friend,” Regis said, setting down the scroll case and approaching the desk, a slight worried crease between his greying brows, “How long have you been sat there?”

“Uh…” The witcher said dumbly, looking up at the window to see the sun was well on its way to setting now, the sky no longer aglow with afternoon light but bruised and darkening by the minute, “I don’t know,” he admitted sheepishly. He hadn’t even reached the halfway mark in the book on curses, spending time and care to look at every detail, to underline and scrawl notes in his chicken scratch handwriting. His head was filled to the brim with clauses and wordings and how to break every curse so far except his damned own. It felt like there was something missing, something right on the tip of his tongue that lurked just under the fatigue and jumbled facts that addled him.

“I believe it’s high time you took a break and get something to eat and drink,” Regis said, moving in close around the desk to take the book from Geralt’s fingers, making a mark of the page he was on before closing it and returning it to the pile. The smell of aniseed and wormwood and, this close, the hint of cinnamon, drifted from the vampire as it always did and its comforting aroma had him let Regis have his way, getting up with a slight hiss and twinge of pain in his knee. A pain that was noticed by Regis’ sympathetic expression.

Geralt flexed his knee and ankle, easing the tightness before bearing his full weight on it. The brace took most of the burden of his weight as he let Regis lead him into the kitchen where a covered tray of food was left on the side. His stomach growled at the smell.

“Marlene left it out for you. She said she’d called you a number of times, but you wouldn’t respond. When she found you huddled over your books, she decided to leave you alone and wait for you to realise you were hungry,” Regis explained, cocking an eyebrow, “When I arrived, she and Mister Foulty were leaving for the night and insisted I do something about it. Now come, there is tea, and after you’ve eaten, I will be assessing your-”

He paused, gestured to Geralt’s chest with a hand before taking the kettle from the stove and pouring a generous amount of hot water into the teapot. The witcher watched as the vampire took the hot metal of the handle into his grasp without hesitation, remembering a fire and a burning horseshoe, “Honestly, Geralt, I do not know what to call it. But after its performance today in the tomb, I would like to keep an eye on it, if you’ll let me?”

“Okay,” He said, settling down into a chair at the table B.B. and Marlene used throughout the days, stifling a yawn. The pulsing of the handprint was still there, but only noticeable when he concentrated on it. He put it out of mind, instead turning his attention back to the pressing feeling he’d dealt with a curse like this before on the Path. _Wanting justice… a lover scorned… where had he confronted something similar?_

Regis sat across from him, a plate of food and tea for Geralt, and a single cup for himself, strong and black, and began to talk as the witcher ate, “Now, where was I? Ah, yes, I-” He paused for a brief moment before dissipating, there one moment and a wisp the next. Geralt looked up and raised his eyebrows in surprise, bread roll half stuffed into his mouth before the vampire reappeared with a rush of air. He raised the scroll case in one hand and politely cleared his throat, “I appeared to have left it in the other room.”

Geralt smirked around a mouthful of food at his friend’s strange sense of propriety; so quick to remind Geralt to use his manners, but happy to become incorporeal at the table to fetch something he could have easily walked to get. He liked it, considered it one of Regis’ unique little charms.

“As I was saying,” The other said, unclasping the lid of the case and unfurling the paper he lifted out of it, the teapot on one corner and his own cup of tea on the other, “The burial records. It appears our Merlina Denworth was from near Novigrad originally. No real specifics other than she was an heiress and moved into Fox Hole one day thirty years ago and died one year after living there. Are you familiar with the place?”

Geralt nodded, “Small village in the Blessure Valley. Had been abandoned for a while and was overrun by bandits. It’s safe now.”

Regis looked at him, “Oh? And I wonder who they have to thank for that?”

The witcher downed a mouthful of tea in response.

Regis turned his eyes back to the records, “She was well-liked, had the same man visit her often.”

“A lover?” Geralt asked, casting his mind back to his confrontation with Merlina’s ghost.

_‘I studied witchers once… I even fell in love with one, but that was so very long ago now.’_

“Who was he?”

Regis’ gaze flitted over the papers, following the text with the tip of a claw, before humming, “Let me see-”

“Was he a witcher?” Geralt asked, not meaning to cut in but unable to contain it. This was the most information he’d had all day. His chest throbbed expectantly.

“A witcher?” Regis repeated, brow furrowed, “I don’t see- oh.”

“Oh?”

“The buyer of the grave plot. No name given but wait,” Regis darted to another scrap of paper in the small pile, “The death record… you were right, indeed it was a witcher, this buyer. School of the Cat.” He paused a moment, reading over it, lips pursing together, “My, Geralt, I think we have found the reason Merlina was infuriated enough to curse you.”

Dark eyes met feline yellow, wisps of candlelight danced in them both.

“She was _kill_ _ed,_ Geralt, look at this. The body was found in the nearby woodland, struck through by numerous blows from a sword. She suffered terrible burns… how _awful_. What on earth befell her?”

It took them but a brief moment to reach the same conclusion.

_The witcher._

They had to find him.

* * *

 

 

_Eskel,_

_I know I haven’t written in a while so I’ll break it down: No, I’m not dead, no, I’m not with Yennefer, and yes the first batch of wine came in a few weeks ago and it was the strongest I’ve ever had. About damn near took my head off._

_Now, let me cut to the chase. Do you know where Lambert is? It’s been months and I’ve not heard from him or Kiera. You’ll want to rope his help in for this, it’ll cast the net wider. I’m looking for one of us, School of the Cat, didn't leave a name behind at least, not on any official documents. He passed through Toussaint about 30 years ago. Not a lot to go on, I know, but there’s so damn few of us anyway that it can’t be too hard to narrow it down, right? I'll let you know anything more when I do._

_And before you ask it again, I’m not that lonely. Regis is here, he says hello even though you haven’t met him formally yet._

_We should winter again._

_Luck on the Path,  
Geralt_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Thank you for your comments and for reading.
> 
> Here are the fun facts/references in this chapter:
> 
> 1) Geralt's memory of Regis talking about avoiding 'stimulants' comes from Baptism of Fire by A. Sapkowski. Most of the dialogue is lifted straight from the English translation with a few tweaks so it fits into this story a little more.
> 
> 2) The mention of the eyehead is in reference to Zoltan first seeing Geralt deal with a monster in Baptism of Fire. He refuses Zoltan's sword and asks for a ladle and a cauldron lid instead, banging them together at full force to scare the relic creature off as it hears with its entire body which is incredibly sensitive. I feel Geralt would have told Regis that story at some point and he found it too amusing to not wind Geralt up about it.
> 
> 3) The song is also from Baptism of Fire where we meet Zoltan Chivay for the first time. Dandelion comes across some people singing it in the forest near Fen Carn and calls out to them through a call and response of the song (much to Geralt's chagrin because they were supposed to be keeping low cover pfft)
> 
> 4) Vesemir's treatment of Geralt as a child comes from scraps we get of Geralt thinking about his childhood in The Last Wish, Sword of Destiny, and Blood of Elves by A. Sapkowski. I liked how Vesemir was portrayed as the tired dad trying to take care of his idiot children and also leaned heavily into some headcanons I have about Geralt's childhood at Kaer Morhen, particularly after his second round of mutations which made him even more of an outsider than a witcher normally is.
> 
> 5) I wonder what similar experience to this justice/revenge curse is that Geralt's trying to recall having dealt with? (hint: it's in the Witcher 3)
> 
> 6) Geralt is smitten but really just doesn't realise it, huh. What a mess.
> 
> 7) The horseshoe connection Geralt's brain makes when Regis grabs the bare hot metal of the kettle is also in reference to Baptism of Fire.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are very much welcome and appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/Comments very much welcome and appreciated <3
> 
> (I aim for an update every 2 weeks but no solid promises because of editing and personal commitments, however, I shall try very hard to keep a somewhat regular schedule)


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